


stars are fire

by secret_soliloquy



Category: Criminal Minds, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Organized Crime, Slow Burn, Suicide, hamlet inspired, hotch is still fbi because that's all i can see him as
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 00:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11566581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/secret_soliloquy/pseuds/secret_soliloquy
Summary: Like it or not, his father is dead. And as much as he'd like to, he can’t run forever. He’s been running for a while now, and he guesses that this is the universe’s way of telling him that his time is up. It makes sense. A person can only run so fast and so far before his legs give out and whatever’s chasing him starts to catch up.mobster!AU where Derek Morgan's crime lord father dies under mysterious circumstances and Derek is forced to return to his estranged childhood home to deal with the aftermath.{OR the one where Gideon gives sage advice and Spencer is just trying to help, he swears.}





	1. walking dead

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve taken _many_ liberties with this story, reality, and the plot of Hamlet. I hope Shakespeare buffs will forgive my tampering. I've been meaning to write this for a while, and just couldn't resist. Enjoy.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

"What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family."

-Mother Teresa

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Derek's phone rings halfway through this week's episode of The Walking Dead. It's two o'clock in the morning. 

Clooney jerks to his feet and howls. 

"Shit," Derek hisses, jerking out to grab his screaming phone and silence his squealing dog. "Shut up, Clooney. I'm not a recluse. People call sometimes." 

His phone screen is akin to a slap in the face. He almost drops it. 

**Incoming call from: Francesca.**

Derek sucks a harsh breath through his teeth. He runs a hand over his face and tries to catalog the surge of emotion whirl-pooling around in his brain. He’s surprised he still has her number saved at all. It’s been _years._ Six, to be exact. He places his phone down on the coffee table gingerly. Like it’s a charged bomb. Like he’s afraid one of his fingers will go haywire and accidentally receive the call, blowing everything to smithereens. 

The phone makes it to the coffee table. Derek leans back into the couch and presses his eyes shut, hoping it will stop soon. Clooney calms reluctantly, spreading himself back out at Derek's feet.  

The phone rings until his voicemail is forced to deal with the woman on the other end. She doesn’t leave a message. She still can’t seem to _take_ a message, either. She calls again. Ten times.

On the eleventh call, he answers. There’s only one way to get this to stop. The same way he’d gotten it to stop the last time. Confront her head on. Be straight with her. Then, hang up before she can get a word in edgewise.

“Mother.” He isn’t spitting, but he’s close. He hopes the formality stings her. She lost the right to the word ‘mom’ a long time ago. “I don’t know why you’re calling, and I don’t care.”

This is the part where he’s supposed to hang up. But for some reason, his finger hesitates over the glowing screen. On the other end, a small sob sounds.

Derek freezes, every bone in his body tensing up. _Hang up,_ his brain screams at his traitorous hands. _Stay on script_! From the floor at his feet, Clooney lets out a low whine. 

Derek does not stay on script. In fact, he does the  _least_ 'on script' thing possible. 

He doesn’t hang up.

He sits on his couch and listens to his mother cry.

Francesca Morgan is many things. Controlling, domineering, heartless. Not emotional. Never emotional. He can’t remember the last time she’s cried. Hell, he’s pretty sure that she didn't cry when he’d packed up and left. Nobody had.

Nobody but Savannah. But only quietly, and where nobody but Derek could see her.

The tears are jolting. He was expecting screams or shouts, not vulnerability. Not from her. Never from her. He cards a hand through Clooney's hair. More to soothe himself than anything else. 

Finally, his mother quiets, sniffling.

He has no idea what the hell kind of protocol applies to situations like this. What to tell your sobbing mother who you haven’t spoken to in six years? Something consoling? Something inquisitive? Something soothing?

Nothing, apparently. At least, that’s what Derek does. Absolutely fucking nothing.

“Derek.” Her voice has run itself ragged. She’s found the heartstring reserved for mothers and their sons, and Jesus _Christ_ is she tugging on it. “Derek,” she repeats. He can hear the tears springing back up. His teeth dig into his lip. “Derek you need to come home, baby.”

Oh, god. Not this. She’d tried for a solid year, run through every tactic in her arsenal of persuasion. She’d never cried, but she did plead. This conversation is beginning to sound achingly familiar.

 _See?_ His brain gloats. _You should’ve hung up, dumbass._

Still, he doesn’t. Maybe, after half an episode of The Walking Dead, he’s feeling particularly masochistic. Maybe he's lonely. Maybe some small, soft part of him just misses his mother.

“Derek.” She says his name like a prayer, leaving plenty of room for a reply that they both know he’ll never give. At least, not here. Not today. Then, she collects herself and drops the bomb.  “Your father has died. It’s time you came home.”

He doesn’t have to hang up. She does it for him.

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

He pours himself as much whiskey as his glass will hold. He shouldn't. He really, really shouldn't. He shouldn't even _have_ it in his apartment. And yet. . . He’s going to need it.

He downs half the glass and unlocks his phone. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds her.

He stares at her name a few minutes, finger hovering over it. It’s not exactly smart, he knows. But what choice does he have? It’s not as though he can just take his mother’s word for it. He sets the glass down.  He wouldn’t put it past her to try to trick him into coming home.

What a sad state of affairs.

He presses the name. Sav.

She answers on the third ring. She’s been waiting on his call. He’s instantly reminded of how much he _hates_ that. The way his mother and Savannah pass their secret messages, cohorts in everything, united in their efforts to utterly and completely control his life.

He takes a slow, measured breath. He’s not going to give her the pleasure of hearing his voice first. The pleasure of being paramount. Of being wanted. He waits.

“Derek.” Her hesitation betrays her. As does the shaky edge to her voice. She knows what he’s calling about. So, in the time it took Derek to pour his glass, she's been briefed. Damn his mother.

“Savannah.” Cold. Cold and distant and so sharp that it slices his tongue on the way out of his lips, filling his mouth with the sharp sting of iron and blood. He hopes she’s bleeding too.

Another long pause.

“Is it true?”

He can picture her perfectly in his mind. Doe eyes wide and watery, brows furrowed. Her upper lip twitching in her search for words.

Time seems to stretch and twist, warping into something silvery and strange. Slow enough to make every moment as excruciating as possible, long enough to last forever. 

“Yes.” This is where a tear will leak from her eye. Where she'll reach out to grab his hands in hers “I’m sorry.”

His heart is really pounding now. With his mother, it could have been a tactic. But Savannah wouldn’t lie. Couldn’t lie. Not to him.

"The funeral?"

"Friday." Meek. Subdued. Pained. He's hurt her. Why doesn't it feel as good as he imagined it would? 

He nods, even though she can’t see him.

He’s half waiting for her to add some detail, half expecting her to hang up. He hasn’t spoken to her once in six years. Not once. That hurt him the most. More than the alienation he suffered at the hands of his family, more than his father’s less-than cheery goodbye gift, more than. . . anything.

He’d spent years waiting on her call. _Years._ They’d always been greater than their surroundings and all the shit their situations came with. The bond they shared was stronger than their parent’s wishes, than their father's businesses. He’d believed that. He really had. So had she. 

And then he left, and she didn’t call.

Maybe she’s been searching for words all this time. Shut away in her room, lip wiggling as she tries to figure out how to tell Derek she doesn’t really care about him. Never has.

“Derek, I—”

Swiftly, he hangs up. Downs the rest of his whiskey in two burning swallows. He needs to pack.

Like it or not, his father is dead. And as much as he'd like to, he can’t run forever. He’s been running for a while now, and he guesses that this is the universe’s way of telling him that his time is up. It makes sense. A person can only run so fast and so far before his legs give out and whatever’s chasing him starts to catch up.

Derek snorts in derision. Of all the people in this damned world to know exactly how to chase someone down and force them to choke down their mistakes, it would be his father.

And he was still as good as ever. Even from beyond the grave.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

He stops by Garcia's on the way to the airport. It's three am, his flight is scheduled for four. 

He doesn't have much time, so he  _pounds_ on the apartment door. He feels bad, but not bad enough to knock softly and risk Penelope not waking up. 

There was no telling how long he could be gone, and this was all too last minute to find a kennel to board Clooney. Garcia might not  _love_ dogs, but she loves him, so that will just have to do. 

She swings the door open, expression murderous. 

"Baby-girl," he starts. 

"Fuck you, Derek Morgan," she finishes. 

He scratches the back of his neck as she crosses her arms. 

"I need to go away for a while."

Her brow furrows. He doesn't exactly vacation often. Life on the N.Y.P.D is an almost-constant grind, and he is easily two times as dedicated to it as most, as she well knows. "How long is 'a while'?"

He's praying that she'll understand. And that she won't question him too much on this. "Hopefully a few weeks, nothing more."

She nods slowly, eyes still narrowed. "And what do you need from me, sweet prince?" There's little kindness to the moniker, but the familiarity of it calms him down, grounds him in this again. 

He grins sheepishly. "How'd you know, baby-girl?"

A smile cracks through, beginning to slip over her features. "I know you wouldn't come _just_ to say goodbye." She taps her chin with one heavily manicured fingernail. "Aha!" She points her finger up in eureka. "Clooney. Let me guess, feed and walk?"

Derek lets his smile grow and pops his dimples. He leans forward to kiss her on the cheek. She splutters. "You're welcome to all the food in the kitchen, and to my Netflix account." He presses his spare key into her palm. "Focus your attention on the perishables and make sure to lock up when you leave."

"Like I need  _your_ Netflix account to watch television," she pouts playfully, covering a yawn with her hand. "I can easily hack my way into season  _twenty_ of Orange Is The New Black if I feel like it."

Derek shoots her one final smile, this one accompanied with a wink. "You work for cops, Penelope. Act like it."

"At least tell me where you're going," she calls after him. 

"In your dreams, techno queen," he replies. 

At least _this_ is normal. At least _this_ is all right. 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

He takes a cab to JFK and the driver is too quiet, so he calls Reid five minutes in. It's not like he needs time to think right now. He also probably owes Reid an explanation, but that's beside the point. 

Reid answers seconds after the first ring. Derek smiles. Of course. 

"Pretty boy."

"Yes?" The answering voice isn't remotely sleepy or disgruntled. Derek frowns. He's probably been up early working again. Derek's finger traces the frayed edge of the seat absentmindedly. 

"I'm going away for a while."

"Oh?" He can practically hear the cogs spinning in Reid's mind.

"Yeah. Maybe two weeks, maybe three."

"Have you told Westfeld?" Their station's captain.

"About to."

Reid's voice warms. "I'm flattered, Morgan. Don't know what to say."

"Don't kid yourself. I'm only telling you first so that  _you'll_ have to tell Westfeld if my plane falls out of the sky." And as a workplace courtesy, but he doesn't need to say that. He'd be pissed six ways from Sunday if _his_ partner ever pulled some bullshit where he disappeared for weeks without notice. Courtesy. That's what this is.

"Ha ha," Reid says dryly. A short moment passes. "Actually, the average passenger on an American commercial airline is safer than most people would estimate. Airplane passengers in the States have a 1 in 7 million chance of actually crashing _and_ dying. You're far more likely to die by cardiovascular disease, or even via bicycle."

"I'll keep that in mind next time I go for a pedal."

Reid laughs at this and clears his throat. His sign that he's about to say something he thinks is important. Derek waits patiently.

"Where are you headed?"

Derek chews his lip, considering if being truthful is worth it. He decides it can't hurt. "Cali."

"Any particular occasion?"

Derek focuses on the throb within his chest and tries to ignore the thickness building up at the back of his throat.

The silence lasts too long, and Reid stumbles to fill it, tripping over his own perceived slight. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I just. . . It's unusual for you to just. . . leave. Especially with things the way they are with the case."

Ah, right. The prostitution ring case that he and Reid had pounded pavement over for six months. Their hard work was finally coming to fruition and the perps were due to stand trial Friday. He and Reid had made plans to watch the opening statements and then go out for a drink and a slice afterwards. 

Two weeks ago, it had seemed like the best idea in the world. From where Derek's sitting now, it all seems so. . . pitiful. Unimportant. He'll be at a funeral Friday.

His voice hardens before he can stop it. "Well, I needed a break. Nothing more to it."

The cabbie announces that they're within five minutes of the airport. 

"Right," Reid finally says, somewhat thickly. "Well, I'll see you."

"See you," Derek says, but Reid is already gone. 

Derek shoots a quick e-mail to Westfeld explaining his situation as a "dire family emergency". He hasn't missed a day of work in two years. He knows Westfeld will be pissed at the short notice, but ultimately fine. Reid is more than capable of doing his  _and_ Derek's work for a few weeks. It's not like it would be a strain on his intellect and skill. 

Derek turns off his phone and tucks it into his pocket. It's going to be a long flight. 


	2. lion king

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

"Death never takes a wise man by surprise; he is always ready to go."

-Jean de la Fontaine

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

She nearly trips over him. In her defense, he’s got his head tucked between his knees and he looks awfully like a trashbag in that horrible black rubber raincoat.

A rubber raincoat? She didn’t know they made those in adult sizes.

He grunts and glares up at her. Big brown orbs for eyes, a mop of damp curls, cheekbones that could slice a cantaloupe. Dr. Spencer Reid. Perhaps the most underpaid and over-qualified detective employed by the NYPD. She shakes the last few drops of water out from her umbrella and sighs.

He just stares up at her, blinking owlishly.

“I was hoping you’d be on your way.” He purses his lips into one of his small frowns.

“Reid—”

Brown eyes flash. “What?” It’s a challenge. Based on his sharp tone and how much his hands are shaking, she decides it’s not worth the effort. She slides the key into the lock and opens the door to Derek's apartment.

“C’mon kid,” she calls over her shoulder. “Warm up.”

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

He lands in LAX at 7, feeling awfully like a skeleton. Three missed calls and a barrage of texts. All but one from Savannah.

 

      **SAV: derek**

**SAV: derek, please we need to talk**

**SAV: i have something to say its importsnt**

 

He deletes them all. It’s satisfying, but not nearly as satisfying as it should be. There it is again, that feeling. Like he’s trying to put a puzzle together but doesn’t have all the pieces. He doesn’t listen to any of the voicemails she’s left him.

One more message. A text from. . . Diego?

He thinks it’s Diego. He _definitely_ doesn’t have Diego’s number anymore.

Still, the style is distinct. The message clear. And the one his mother would ask to reach out to him when Savannah failed. . . definitely Diego.

 

**UNKNOWN: coz, black stretch out front we finna chat**

 

Coz. Stretch. Finna.  

Derek rolls his eyes. The more he stares at the message, the more he’s certain that it’s Diego. It has to be. Five years his junior, but still trying to play the maturity card. And the slang. Just irritating enough to be his.

Derek sends a simple reply.

 

**Ok.**

 

If he’s honest, he’s a little bewildered that they know he’s here. Somehow, between two phone calls with extremely limited response on his end, his mother has called his bluff.

He would come home, alright. For his father, he’d come. And right away, too. She had been so sure of it that she’d sent Diego with the goddamn _li_ _mo_ _._

Derek cracks his knuckles and strides towards the escalators. If she wants to play, he’ll play.

Let the games begin.

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

Spencer can count on one hand the number of times he’s been in Morgan’s apartment.

Three. Three times.

It’s hard to reconcile the place with the Morgan that he knows. The Morgan he knows is warm and broad and smiling, with dizzying dimples. This apartment is white and wide and empty. The high ceilings and free space scream of money, as does the view. That part of it makes sense. Morgan owns nice things. Spencer isn’t sure _how_ , as they both make more or less the same salary, and they’re both still paying off student loans. (Spencer’s triple what Morgan owes, but who’s counting?) But Morgan always dresses sharply. Enjoys a shiny new watch every once in a while.

Spencer’s not saying he _tries_ to notice things like that. . . but, well, he does. About everyone, really. He can't really help himself. 

The parts of the apartment that should show personality, flair, are sparse and cold. Not like Morgan at all. Walking in is like walking into a crime scene. Something just feels wrong about it. It's eerie. Like Morgan's spent the last six years counting down until the day he was planning on disappearing. 

Like if you dusted for prints on every surface, you wouldn't find a single one. 

Clooney is floppy and loud and overexcited. Exactly the kind of dog someone like Derek Morgan should own. He pees a little on the floor when Spencer bends down to pat his head. It calms Spencer down. Reminds him that Morgan really lives here, that he really _has_ put himself into a part of his home.

Spencer stands by the couch, hands in his back pockets, while Garcia rummages through the kitchen for Clooney’s food.

Morgan’s left a glass on the coffee table. Odd. Nothing about the sparseness of this house, or about Morgan's military training, suggest that he'd willingly leave anything out of place. Spencer picks it up, brings it to his nose. The smell within is sharp, distinctive. Unmistakable.

Whiskey.

He drops the glass. It shatters over the floor.

Clooney goes into a small frenzy from the kitchen and Garcia curses. “Please, let’s _not_ destroy Morgan's apartment while I’m supposed to be watching it.”

Spencer takes slow, measured steps to the kitchen, a thick glass shard in his outstretched palm.

Did Morgan think Garcia wouldn’t notice? Wouldn’t care?

Did he think at all?

Garcia’s red in the face, huffy. “What’s the deal, Spence?”

Spencer sets the shard on the counter. “Whiskey,” he says evenly, anger and fear bubbling just beneath his skin.

“What?”

“Whiskey,” he repeats.

Garcia’s face falls. “What?” It’s softer now. Not really a question of whether or not it happened, but of why _._ “Are you sure?” She reaches a hand out for the shard, brings it to her nose. 

Spencer runs to the cabinets, pulling them open one after another. Garcia's been checking the lower cabinets for dog food, but you don't keep liquor where you keep kibble. Spencer looks higher, above eye level. Morgan wasn't proud of this part of himself. Wouldn't want just anyone to be able to see it. 

It doesn't take him long to find it, in the highest cabinet above the fridge. 

Spencer presses his fingers to his forehead and closes his eyes. He doesn’t need to say what they’re both thinking. Doesn’t want to.

Garcia peers into the cabinet over his shoulder. Ten or eleven bottles, most empty. She covers a gasp with her hands. 

Derek’s been drinking again.

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

The limo door is open and Derek ducks inside, closing it behind him. He’s greeted with Diego’s pale, broad grin. Diego's hand, clapping down on his shoulder.

“Sorry, coz.”

Then, everything goes dark.

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

They arrange the bottles on the counter.

Reid’s blaming himself.

He spells out his guilt to Penelope in short, clipped tones. Tones that can easily be misinterpreted as frustration to a casual observer.

Nothing about Penelope Garcia is casual. Reid isn’t frustrated, he’s terrified.

“I asked him if he wanted to go out for drinks on Friday. After our case goes to trial.”

Penelope nods. “Wall Street sex ring, got it.” She’d done a lot of the heavy hacking that had helped collect the evidence to finally take those bastards down.

“I didn’t mean _drinks,_ drinks. I meant, like, milkshakes? The word 'drinks' just slipped out-- God, I should’ve known that he would probably misinterpret the vernacular—”

“No, no,” Penelope interrupts him abruptly. “Derek knew what he needed to do. Going to dinner wouldn’t change that. He knew he wasn’t supposed to be drinking. He's been sober for what, six months?”

Reid throws his face into his hands. "Ten," he corrects. Penelope wishes she had what it took to smile. 

"Okay, so ten months then. And you and he were going to get dinner. I'll repeat myself, you big beautiful brain, that doesn't change anything. You didn't give him permission to drink. You can't make your way through," she pauses to count, "twelve bottles of hard liquor in a week, much less a night or two."

Penelope looks around the kitchen, much too clean for its own good. Looks down at Clooney, wiggling and whining on the floor. She know's Reid is doing the very same. Eyes tracing the room for clues. Thinking back on the last conversation had with him. To the tightness of his eyes, the way his smile had been halting, uneasy. Trying to find an explanation. A sign. 

Reid looks stricken. “What changed it, then? What changed all of this? Morgan hasn't taken time off for anything but sickness since I've known him. And suddenly he's flown off to California for 'two to three weeks'. At _four in the morning._ ” 

Penelope suddenly jerks to attention. "California?"

Reid frowns. "Yeah. Didn't he tell you?"

"Four in the morning," she mutters. Morgan hates mornings almost as much as she does, which is more than anyone else she knows. 

Of course Morgan didn't tell her. He wouldn't, knowing what she knows. Even just _suspecting_  what she knows. 

And he's right. She does know. All it had taken was a cursory search of the dark web. Some digging through criminal records. Connecting a few dots. Derek Morgan has dirt. She's known it since the moment she'd met him. Nobody who's been in the military or police force as long as he claimed has a countenance _that_ easy.

It isn't ordinary dirt, either. It's big, messy, life-ruining, career-halting dirt. She'd trusted him. Stopped looking, encrypted the file behind something that a digital elephant couldn't slam through, buried it so deeply in her hard drive that only someone looking in earnest could find it. She'd never opened it again. They never talked about it. The same way they never talked about the drinking. 

Well, they  _had_ talked about the drinking. Just never about the why. And, just like that, more dots began to connect. 

“A stressor.”

Reid looks lost. "What?"

"A stressor. Morgan didn't just decide to go on vacation."

"How do you know?"

She presses her lips together, stares at the line of bottles. She needs to choose and she needs to choose now. 

Will he ever forgive her?

"You're sure he went to California?"

Reid nods. "Positive. I have an eide--"

"--tic memory, I know." Penelope chews her lip. "Okay look. If we're sure these belong to him, and we're sure he went to California and not Colorado or some other place. . . I think I might know what's up."

She takes a deep breath. She's helping. Helping. If what she suspects is true. . . Derek is going to need it. 

"I'm going to need internet access, a computer and the blackest coffee you can make me."

 

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

Derek wakes with a jolt in the back of the limo.

Diego pulls back his lips in a feral grin. “Sorry, coz. New policy. It’s the law enforcement specialty.”

Derek bites down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. He can't react. He won't. The satisfaction will only be temporary. Only when he's sure he's under complete control does he met Diego’s eyes. Every bone in his body is screaming for him to figure out how. How this asshole that he hasn't spoken to in _years_ knows he's a cop. 

“Nice car," he says instead. 

Diego nods, pours himself a glass of champagne. “Only the best for your momma.”

“What was that shit?” His head is still spinning, he can’t help the anger behind his words.

Diego shrugs. “A lil roofie.”

Derek jerks his head to the side violently, stares out at the landscape blurring past.

 _It will do you no good to smash him to a pulp, Morgan,_ his brain shouts, fighting to be heard over the roar growing in his ears. _No good at all._

Calm is control. Control is power. Derek meets his eyes again.

“Rohypnol. How much?”

Diego smirks. “Come again?”

“How much Rohypnol?”

“Rohypno?”

“You know what I mean!” His voice thunders. “You may be an idiot, but you’re far from dumb. Rohypn _ol._ How much?”

A shrug. Easy as Sunday morning. “Enough for a little nap.”

“A nap,” Derek says dryly. “That’s not what roofies are for and we both know it.”

Diego shrugs again. “Maybe it wasn’t roofies, then.”

“You do that to everyone that goes for a ride in your car?”

“Not my car.” There’s a twinkle in Diego’s eye. He sees Derek's anger. Hears it. Enjoys it.

Derek knows that he's just playing into Diego's game, that he's jumping over all the hurdles and tumbling toward the line Diego's true intentions are waiting behind, but his rage is a runaway train. 

“You do that to everyone that goes for a ride in my mother’s car?”

Diego leans back in his seat and brings the champagne glass to his lips, sipping deeply. He swirls the liquid in his mouth a moment, then spits. Derek ducks to the side, barely missing it. 

“How many _cops_ you think go for a ride in this car, coz? Can’t have you knowing where we going, can we?”

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and counts to ten. Calm is control. Control is power. When he opens them, Diego is offering a glass of champagne, something like an apology tracing his lips.

“What is it you fuckers say?" he grins. "Just protocol?”

Derek snatches the glass before he can think twice.

He drains it in a gulp. He can’t really taste it. Never has been able to.

“I know where the house is, asshat. I grew up there. Drugging me isn’t going to change that.”

Diego just leans over to refill Derek’s glass. “It’s been a while, coz. Couldn’t take the chance.”

 

*~~~~~*~~~~~*

 

His father’s house is vast and isolated. Just as large and splendid as it was when he saw it last. A veritable palace, tucked away in the hills just north of the Mexican border.

Diego holds the car door for Derek and beckons him into the harsh brightness of the desert sun. Derek takes two steps, swings his bag onto the ground and slams his fist into Diego’s jaw.

Diego drops back against the side of the car, spluttering. Derek wipes the blood off on the leg of his pants and turns to collect his bag.

He’s only been back here for a minute and he’s already sliding back into it with ease. Derek Morgan. Hank Morgan’s best eyes, ears, muscle. Derek Morgan, heir to the throne. Derek Morgan, smooth criminal.

He looks up at the house, allows himself a brief moment to take it in.

It’s colossal. Everything white and clean. Grand slopes and columned curves. Effortless, majestic, in charge. Just shy of gaudy, just short of elegant. So at odds with the ragged California hills. So separate from the blood money that it’d been built with. Yet, still.

Plantation style. A wraparound porch. Sturdy columns. Rows of neat windows.  

Hank Morgan had built this house. And nothing Hank Morgan did was a happy accident. Nothing at all.

A three hundred acre plot of private land with nothing on it. Nothing but this house atop a hill, looking down upon the kingdom it rules, facing north. Facing L.A. Purposeful. Powerful.

Every bit a fortress. Every bit a palace.

Derek walks up the steps slowly, reaches out. Rings the bell. Cold spikes through his gut. The last time he'd been through these doors, he'd been leaving. Bags packed, never coming back. The last time he'd been through these doors, his father was still alive. 

Now, the king is dead, and the long-lost prince has come home. It's just like the motherfucking Lion King. 

When he left, he never expected to see his father again. Never wanted to. 

So why does he feel like throwing up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't help myself with using 'coz' as slang.


End file.
